Tuesday, March 15

You can't stop thinking about the time you spent in that public bathroom. Green and white with dripping water and cold tile. Strange Human Men stomping in and out, doing their strange odorous business before stomping back out again.

You loved it so.

There was a small boy who would bring you Grain. He'd sit in the stall--the farthest one down--and cup his hands out to you. It was the most delicious thing you had ever eaten, and that boy was the best friend you ever had.

It was perfect until that awful Janitor Woman went to war with your restroom occupancy. She danced around for a week, waving her arms over her head, trying to catch you with her leathery fingers, until finally throwing a towel over you, plunging you into darkness and expelling you forever from your haven.

Even now, two years later, you perch on a branch overlooking the men's room you so desire. A sign hangs from the door, "Out of Order." It's been there since you left. The doors have been locked and no one has gone in or out.

They aren't going to open the door ever again. They've given up.

But you never will.

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